Doctor Versus Detective
by Ms. Moonstar
Summary: Epilouge UP! Holmes has always been a stubborn man, but even he can't hide his illness from Watson... Please read and Review! COMPLETED
1. The Illness

Doctor versus Detective  
  
By Ms. Neptune Holmes  
  
A/N: Hello everyone. This is my story/entry for Kari Kenobi's "Illness contest" I do hope you enjoy it. This is NOT SLASH! P.S. Please forgive the weird title, it was the only one I could think of that fits. Any title suggestions are appreciated.  
  
It was 5th of July 1887, that my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I sat in our flats in 221B Baker Street, trying to find something to do to keep our minds off the insufferable heat outside. I sat at the desk, writing, or as Holmes would often remind me, "romanticize" his latest case. Holmes sat on the floor of the sitting room; a newspaper of old scattered around him, and was looking for some minute piece of mystery in some murder or robbery that had taken place. Much to his disappointment, there was only news of the the United States leasing Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, as well as some odd and unimportant news. Holmes looked up at me with a mixture of anxiety and frustration apparent on his gaunt face.  
  
"Just one case, Watson!" he exclaimed, "I need only one minute oddity to entertain my uninterested mind."  
  
I looked over to Holmes. He seemed paler than he customarily was, and seemed to be sweating a great deal more than I. The room was cool however. The blinds had been brought up and the windows were opened. It was odd to see that my friend also seemed to be holding his stomach with one hand, rather than use it to animate his frustration. I dismissed it decisively, forgetting that Holmes was in some ways very different than most people.  
  
Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, entered the sitting room with two silver platters laden with our midday meal. Once she had placed them on the dining table, she turned to me and produced a small piece of parchment from her pocket.  
  
"This just came for you, Doctor." she said, handing the note which I perceived to be a telegram. I opened and read it, then sighed. There was need for me at a private residence in Harley Street. Going to my room, I picked up my doctors' bag, and then return to the sitting room. Holmes was not at the table; instead, he lay on the couch, one arm draped over his abdomen, eyes closed and breathing slightly labored.  
  
I walked over to him in a moment of concern, and asked in a loud voice said "Holmes? Are you alright?"  
  
In response he just lifted his arm and waved his hand dismissively. "I am well, Watson, I assure you. Go see to your patient." The detective, however, did not seem well at all. It was quite the opposite; he lay there, breathing heavily and was haggard. I almost hesitated to leave him, but then I remembered my duty.  
  
"Holmes, I must insist that you eat. You do not do sustain yourself with food during cases; I'll not let you make a habit of it. Mrs. Hudson, please see that Mr. Holmes has lunch, force feed him if you must. I will be back within the hour." I then turned to the door, putting on my hat and coat, and after one more glance back at my friend, left the flat.  
  
When I returned to 221b Baker Street one hour later, it had seemed as though havoc had ensued during my departure. Mrs. Hudson replied in a huffy tone when I asked if Holmes ate anything as I entered the main hallway.  
  
"Oh yes sir, he did eat. Most of it he "spilled" by "accident" and left to his rooms leaving me to clean it up. Oh yes doctor, I think he's QUITE well." Turning on heel she stormed out of the entrance hall.  
  
Heaving a sigh, I mounted the steps to flat B. Once I entered the rooms, my first sense of Holmes' illness was confirmed as my nose instantly picked up on the odor of one who has recently retched. I knew that none other my friend himself had been sick. Treading to the washroom, (whose door had been closed) I knocked gently.  
  
"Holmes," I called, and then received a groan in return. "Holmes, I insist that you come out of there this instant!" I shouted through the door.  
  
The detective opened the door, and stepped out. It was in that moment that I realized that Sherlock Holmes was not a well man. His face had, if possible had gone a shade whiter than before, and now stood heaving slightly. His eyes glinted with fever; sweat beadily perspired down his face, his legs looking as if they would give in at any moment. Holmes saw me, though it looked like it he didn't recognize me, and came towards me.  
  
He almost tripped over his own feet as he struggled to meet me. When he did, Holmes placed his hand on my shoulder and murmured, "I don't think I am a well man, Doctor." Holmes' eyes rolled back into his head, and then his legs gave way and he crumple to the floor before I could catch him.  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Mycroft Holmes to the Rescue

Doctor versus Detective (Part 2)  
  
By Ms. Neptune Holmes  
  
A/N: Well, I'm back everyone! Thanks to all who reviewed my first chapter!  
  
Note: I have changed the year that the story takes place in Chapter 1 from 1882 to 1889 so that another character can be entered.  
  
Alexia S Luclwit: I'm glad you liked it!  
  
Black Rose 25: C'est la vie. The vomiting is essential to the illness, hence the presence. But, I'm glad you enjoyed it.  
  
Matatron: I think Watson has several ideas of what he may have!  
  
Njong: *BOWS* Thanks very much! ^_^  
  
Serene Rose: *laughs maliciously* THAT RIGHT! Ok, so Watson WOULD have caught him.Opps!  
  
Shannon Holmes: Good! Then I'll be glad to continue!  
  
Vidar: Thanks! ^_^  
  
Now onward!  
  
I had, with very much effort, managed to move Holmes to the sofa and lay him out upon it. The detective's eyes fluttered open, though they were slightly glazed.  
  
"Holmes, listen to me. Did you eat anything these past few days while I was out in my surgery?" I asked him in a somewhat concerned tone. I had set upon prodding Holmes' abdomen with my hand to check for any pressure that caused him pain.  
  
Holmes replied croakily, "I went for a short walk towards the East end and had luncheon in a small restaurant."  
  
So that was it; Holmes was struck with food poisoning! I had no doubt that was the case. He was well known in London, especially with the criminal class. It would have been extremely easy for them to rid the world of Sherlock Holmes in this fashion. And yet, why was it that only one side of his stomach hurt and not the rest? And why did he have a fever?  
  
My friend was struggling to sit upright, despite the warnings from me to lay still and my hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I wish to go lay down, my dear Watson. Surely you have no objections to that, being a medical man." he said with a weak laugh.  
  
"I would have rather him lay resting on the couch so that I could check on you often," I informed him.  
  
He declined, saying that he would feel more comfortable in his own room. Weaving somewhat, and shunning my assistance, he made it to the door of his quarters and shut the door behind him. For three days I heard nothing of Holmes, regardless of being only a few meters away from his chambers. I did not feel right in invading his recuperation. However, it was anxiety that overwhelmed me when Holmes did not open his room so that I or Mrs. Hudson could render aid to him. Often times, I had found myself pounding on Holmes' door, ordering him to open up so that I could examine him.  
  
"I am fine Watson! I'm well on my way to recovery!" yelled Holmes very feebly one morning. When I was breakfasting however, I heard the sound of Holmes being ill. This went on for a few moments, and then I heard my friend groan. Slamming down the spoon I had used for my egg, I went to the desk and scratch down a few lines on a piece of paper and called for our landlady.  
  
"Please see that this is delivered to Mycroft Holmes of the Pall Mall," I had said the name of the recipient rather loudly.  
  
"Right away, Doctor Watson," she replied softly, then added "Why are you summoning Mr. Holmes' brother?"  
  
"I was thinking that three heads are better in this situation. Perhaps we both can get him to come out of his shelter. "  
  
A half hour later, Mr. Mycroft Holmes was standing in our sitting room. His bulky hand shook mine.  
  
"How are you, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft Holmes asked politely.  
  
"Very well, thank you. Your brother however is not. He will not open the door for me or the landlady. We both realized that he was ill. And yet, as always, is refusing medical treatment. I was thinking that you might able to persuade him to surface."  
  
"Show me to his room," the hulking gentleman finally said with a sigh. Mycroft Holmes chuckled softly. "My dear Doctor Watson, you must understand that both my brother and I are stubborn men. We both forge ahead without looking and are not one to worry about our health."  
  
When we had reached Holmes' quarters, the elder Holmes brother pounded on the wooden entrance.  
  
"Sherlock, please come out here! We must talk" said Mycroft Holmes in a calm tone. The only response was silence. A few more knocks and it was apparent that the large man was beginning to lose patience.  
  
"WILLAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, IF YOU DON'T COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM THIS INTANT.."  
  
I had been taken aback by the use of my friend's full name. This time it was obvious that Holmes could not resist barricading himself in any longer; I heard footsteps that was soon followed by the sound of a soft 'thump' as though something had hit the ground. Mycroft Holmes must have heard it as well, because he muttered quickly, "Help me, Watson we'll force open the door."  
  
I nodded dumbly and proceeded to put my weight to the entry. In one swift moment, with both of our bodies as force, the door gave way and light spilled into the tiny room. It was extremely untidy, as was accustomed to Holmes' nature, but it seemed as though everything that was skewed was the result from Holmes and his illness. The room smelled horribly of infirmity and vomit. On the red carpet at our feet, in a crumpled heap of white was Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The elder sibling helped me carry Holmes to the couch were I examined him. I felt a great bulge on Sherlock Holmes' right side that caused me to shake slightly.  
  
"By God," I murmured to Mycroft, "it's appendicitis!"  
  
To be continued.. 


	3. The Surgery

Doctor versus Detective  
  
By Ms. Neptune Holmes  
  
A/N: Hello again everyone! Here is the third and part of "Doctor versus Detective." I do hope to write the last installment of "Unhappy Endings" soon. Wow! Seven reviews! Thanks everyone!  
  
Gyemese: Hmm..Don't worry. I won't hurt him. Much *cackles*  
  
Vidar: Thanks very much ^_^  
  
Alexia S. Luclwit: Oh, I had to look up some of the medical stuff like surgery, anesthetics ect. It took a lot of research to do this story. *Blinks*English essay? What English essay? ^_^  
  
Black Rose25: LOL, calm down ^_^; I made the mistake of taking French in school. There are some things I noticed in your message, but not a whole heck of a lot! Yeah Mycroft does remind me of a mom at that moment, or when your brother (or sibling) is hogging the bathroom and won't get out! Glad you liked.  
  
Shannon Holmes:*Sweat drops* Whoops, sorry Shannon! Thanks a lot for the kind review!  
  
Serene Rose: Hee hee, I love that name too. I think Holmes would kill someone who called him William, or Billy. Appendicitis is not viral (In other words it's not passed on from one person to another.) It's just if the organ gets infected, so that's why Mycroft didn't get it. Yeah, Watson's gonna make him all better to make up for not catching him.  
  
Part 3: Surgery  
  
Holmes seemed to be going paler as the seconds passed. I looked up at the elder both worried and slightly panicked.  
  
"We must get him to a hospital, if his appendix ruptures-"  
  
At that moment, my friend's eyes opened, looking almost a child who was very frightened. He grasped my hand and whispered hoarsely "No Watson, no hospital!" that cryptic message chilled my heart. Sherlock Holmes' strength seemed to have drained from the action, his head lolled and fell back onto the couch; his breathing more shallow than before.  
  
"Do you not know how to do the surgery?" Mycroft Holmes asked me briskly.  
  
"Yes, I do know how to do it. I went to a seminar six months back that explained the procedure. However, I have never had to actually do the surgery." I explained with a sigh. Holmes was dying; I had no other choice, I had to do the operation or my friend would die.  
  
I quickly exited out of the room and went into my own, grabbing my medical bag. Then I went to the door of the flat and called out to our landlady.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson! I need you to bring a basin of hot water, a small towel, and a heavy blanket if you will!" I left the door open and nearly ran into Holmes' room and placed it on the nearby table. Mrs. Hudson entered with the items I requested.  
  
Looking like she was holding back tears, she said, "I was going to make tea but-"the old landlady stopped her train of thought "What's wrong with him, Doctor?"  
  
"His appendix is about to rupture. If we don't get it out soon, he won't make it." I said as gently as I could.  
  
Our landlady gasped and quickly removed herself from Holmes' room. I had Mycroft lift his brother off the bed as I spread the quilt over it. When Sherlock Holmes was lying on it, I pulled a bottle of alcohol and my surgery tools from my black bag, poured it into the basin of water and then placed my surgery instruments in it.  
  
Next, I proceeded to remove the nightshirt from him and pour some of the antiseptic onto Holmes' bare stomach. After that, I pulled a vial of sedative and syringe from the depths of my medical handbag, pulled the solution into the needle, and then smoothly into his forearm.  
  
I also drew out another small bottle, this time of Chloroform, dipped it onto my own handkerchief and pressed it against Holmes' mouth and nose to insure that he would remain completely insensible for the duration of the procedure. That being done, I requested that Mycroft keep the chloroform cloth pressed against my friend while I went to the washroom and washed my hands. A moment later, I came back; pulled the first instrument I needed from the basin, dried it, and began.  
  
Holmes' fever broke sometime during the middle of the operation. I noticed that he was breathing more naturally, and, his body had relaxed somewhat. The elder Holmes was looking down at his younger brother somewhat sadly. Mycroft had also taken out his handkerchief and was gently brushing off the sweat from his younger sibling's forehead.  
  
It was well past five o'clock in the evening when I had sewn the wound shut and wrapped the belly of my "patient." Mycroft with my instructions, carefully lifted Sherlock Holmes from the bed so that I could remove the blooded quilt, (he had long removed the chloroform doused cloth) and pulled the bed sheets back while the bulkier Holmes brother slid the leaner man into the coverings while I disposed of the blood-soaked blanket and the little organ that had caused so much trouble. When I returned, I noted that Mycroft had found a clean nightgown for his brother to wear, much to my surprise, and had re-dressed Holmes in it.  
  
I put a hand on his large shoulder. "He'll be fine Mr. Holmes. Your brother is quite stubborn sometimes, but he's quite resilient. Would you like to stay for dinner? I am sure that Holmes won't wake before dawn tomorrow."  
  
The colossal man shook his head. "No, I must be off. My landlady is expecting me. Thank You. "  
  
"Very well, I will stay by Holmes' bedside tonight to make sure there were not any complications. "Again I received a nod as a response.  
  
"Thank You, Doctor Watson. You may have saved my brother's life today. I owe you a great deal."  
  
"Not at all," I declared, "Good evening, Mr. Holmes." I opened the door for him and he bowed slightly in respect. When Mycroft Holmes had left, I had thought of going to my friend's room when there was a knock at the flat's door. Mrs. Hudson came in, her eyes a little glassy red and puffy.  
  
"Oh, Doctor Watson, how is he?"  
  
"He's doing fine now, Mrs. Hudson, not to worry. Mr. Holmes is sleeping right now."  
  
She bobbed her head dumbly. "That's good. At least Mr. Holmes will be able to recover. I'll bring you your dinner, sir." And then she swept out of the room.  
  
I took dinner, which was of course, was very delicious and made my way back to Holmes room. At nine o' clock my long vigil began.  
  
To be continued.... 


	4. Epilouge

Doctor versus Detective (Epilogue)  
  
By Ms. Neptune Holmes  
  
Hello again everyone! Here's the final chapter of "Doctor versus Detective" I know, it took me FOREVER to get up, but life kinda caught up with me, ya know? I also apologize for the shortness, but I wanted to finish it quickly. I do hope that the content makes up for the length. So, with out further delay, here's the epilogue!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sherlock Holmes as I have often written, is a singular man. This too can be said for his regard of his own health. No sooner than the second day of his recovery, than my friend was up and and about. One morning I awoke to find Sherlock Holmes at the sitting room table. When I questioned and cautioned him of his returning health, Holmes just smiled and reminded me that "I am a brain, Watson; the rest of me is a mere appendix."  
  
However, he suffered a relapse in his condition, leaving my friend in a delirious state for several days. Sherlock Holmes, in his delirious state shouted about past criminals he had perused in his practice or placed in the dock. Mainly, he spoke of Professor. Moriarty. At last, on the third night of his delirium, his high temperature reached its peak, then dissipated.  
  
Holmes' recovery was slow and painful for all those involved. Along with Mrs. Hudson and me, Sherlock Holmes' brother Mycroft also took part in his recovery, cajoling him into staying in bed and resting. The elder Holmes brother often promised his younger sibling that he'd do everything in his power to send him cases of the strangest and most peculiar kind when he was well again. Holmes' extraordinary will and constitution had worked wonders; Sherlock Holmes had completely recovered from his ailment in a full week.  
  
His equally formidable character can only match Holmes' remarkable constitution. It was truly a case where a determined doctor versus an equally difficult detective.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The End. 


End file.
